


Star City Nocturne

by forlornopes



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Noir, Episode AU: s02e16 Doomworld, Gen, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-03 05:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forlornopes/pseuds/forlornopes
Summary: New in town and down on her luck, disgraced cop turned P.I. Amaya Jiwe has some things to sort out. Including whether she should befriend her new neighbor, if she can trust the ADA's mysterious sister, and how many bar fights it takes to get evicted from her apartment. But with unseen forces pulling the strings of fate, Amaya's fresh start could begin in Star City, and end in her doom.Doomworld AU AU





	1. Black City Skyline

People liked to say that when one door closed, another opened. The door to the mess that had become her life crept ajar the day of Barry Allen’s funeral. Turned out, empty doorways made for just as effective ambushes as they did new beginnings.

 

It hadn’t been an ideal day for a funeral, the sun too bright and birds chirping rudely as Detective Joe West sprinkled dirt from his hand over the casket of the young man who had held the place in his heart of a son. Would have been his son-in-law in three months, and Amaya would have slipped into a yellow bridesmaid gown to support Iris on her walk down the aisle. Her friend would have been happy with her beau. As happy as anybody could be in Central City. But that door was closed now.

 

Iris hadn't come to tell her goodbye or to tell her off before Amaya left for the bus station. They had been close before Barry was killed. Things changed. Could be for the better, in Iris’ case. Amaya had never pictured herself letting down somebody who counted on her, and it cost her the best friend she’d ever had and more. The weeks since that fateful day at the bank had been a brutal education on her own incompetence.

 

Amaya leaned her head back against the seat of the bus, eyes closed to the passing lights of traffic beyond the window, dancing fuzzy and unnoticed through the rainfall. The pattering on the metal domed ceiling made impacts like a thousand delicate footfalls, enough to retrace all of the missteps she had taken to get to this point. Right now she didn't care about the vinyl sticking to her hair with the grime of innumerable passengers fleeing their pasts intermingling with her own escape in the night.

 

After waiting on the curb in the downpour and the dirt of a bus stop located far from her old patrol route, a shower was her main priority when she arrived at her new residence. Water, whether from the sky above or a rundown apartment bathroom wouldn't be enough to wash away the coat of malaise clinging to her skin from the rough end to her once promising police career. But it’d do in a bind.

 

Wally had been the glue holding the Wests together at Barry’s funeral, holding his father on his feet, holding back his own grief to be strong for his sister. Wally - sweet, funny, _too_ cute Wally, who Amaya sensed was a tad taken with her from his behavior on visits to his old man at the precinct. The last time they’d spoken was over the phone and Wally had told her that he wasn’t angry and that he wished her the best. No mention of how Iris felt about her going. He held Amaya together too.

 

There had been plenty of upset mutual associates who knew Barry from back when he was a CSI in attendance. But Amaya hadn't recognized many faces at Barry’s funeral. Some grim, others angry, and a few folks looking just regretful enough that it was hard to tell if they were lamenting a young man’s murder or that they forgot the popcorn. It wasn't surprising that Barry would have friends she didn't remember; hadn't met. In life, Barry was polite with an easy smile, light step and a talent for enthusiastically deflecting conversation away from himself at every turn. So while it appeared that Iris’ fiance had known many people, despite being a family friend, Amaya would not categorize him as a man easy to know.

 

An edge of the business card in her front pocket poked her through her dark pants just sharply enough to remind her that it was there. She sighed and slid to lean her head against the window, cool glass pressing against her temple. The light chatter of her fellow travelers faded to white noise.

 

After the burial service, a white woman with sharp features, long blonde hair and clad in a crisp business suit that screamed law enforcement-adjacent had approached the Wests. At the time, Amaya was still Joe’s partner and treated as family so when the bereaved were too absorbed in their grief to notice the woman, she interceded on their behalves. Another piece of the damned puzzle that she'd given up assembling the day she lost Joe West’s trust.

 

The woman was an Assistant District Attorney out of Star City, and she offered her services to the Wests to help in any way she could. She introduced herself as Laurel Lance and gave Amaya her card with a practiced crispness in her tone. She’d claimed that she only knew Barry through work but the red-rimmed eyes and hastily reapplied makeup told a different story. Amaya had at first forgotten about the card, and then later that evening decided not to pass it on to the Wests at all.

 

Even a rookie could decipher that Laurel Lance had lied to her face about the extent of her familiarity with Barry. Miss Lance knew him well enough to cry repeatedly for him at his funeral, which she'd traveled hours to attend. Amaya had watched the woman return to a crowd of likewise emotional strangers, and wondered if she'd known the man in the grave at all; if Iris had either.

 

The hazy checkerboard glow of far off structures jutting into the gloom on the horizon sharpened into focus when Amaya’s eyes opened. Star City’s skyline. Worse than Central City, Joe used to say like a mantra when he had to look the other way for brass on the take or contraband disappearing from the CCPD evidence locker.  _“At least in Central, you may already know you're gonna lose the game, but you still get to play. In Star City you can wake up a beat cop and go to bed a murderer and not care how it went bad.”_

 

But Joe was done defending Central City the night Barry’s ice-encrusted heart slowed and stopped within his chest on Iris’ doorstep, in her arms. Dispatch was howling through the radio to let another street car take this one as their cruiser raced to Iris’ address like a streak of red and blue lightning. The Chief himself had warned them off during that harrowing drive, being of the belief that Detective West would fall apart if he had to watch one of his boys die and his daughter's heart break. The Chief was wrong. For a month.

 

A well-maintained highway sign greeted the bus as turn offs began to sidle up along the interstate with increasing frequency.

 

_Welcome to Star City!_

_Proud Home of Mayor Eobard Thawne_

_Presidential Medal Recipient for Outstanding Contributions to America and Planet Earth_

  
Amaya frowned and closed her eyes as the city opened to her arrival, vast and bleak and twinkling. A fresh hell of possibilities. Star City. Her new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just having some fun with Doomworld. Honestly, Legends is so good you could write an AU for every episode. But I'm just going with Doomworld because Amaya once said she wanted to be a cop and it just made sense. Let me know what you think so far, have a great day!


	2. Lonely Woman

Amaya checked and double-checked the address on her phone against the front of the two story nightclub where the GPS had lead her. Her destination was better maintained than the other buildings on the block and tucked between two deserted shops with a chat rock alley to the right of it. One bag slung over her shoulder and the sidewalk otherwise empty beneath the streetlights, Amaya’s presence was garnering attention from the two bouncers standing by the door.

 

“Gotta problem, ma’am?” called one of the men in matching black suits and buzzcuts, earpieces locked in. She wondered if their elbows bent or if they only had the plasticine appearance of overgrown G.I. Joe dolls. “We have a dress code and that ain't it, so why don't you keep walking.” The closest square-jaw tipped his head towards the sidewalk continuing past the building and the unfamiliar street.

 

Amaya glanced down at herself; clothes wrinkled and dingy under her black leather jacket due to her trip, and then tracked her eyes up to the name of the joint emblazoned on the building’s facade. It read  _The_   _Firestorm Lounge_ in old fashioned, elegant typeset lined with backlit geometric shapes stylized into flames. The aroma of food, more akin to savoury gourmet than pub snacks, wafted out of the double door entrance. Her stomach gurgled and in her minds-eye she stared down an uncertain future of near certain homelessness and starvation if her apartment didn't pan out. Suddenly, finding a quiet 24 hour diner, grabbing a meal and then locating a nice graveyard to camp in indefinitely sounded almost swell.

 

“No trouble, fellas. Just a wrong address.” Before she had taken three steps, the second haircut called out to her.

 

“Hey wait, you the tenant? The, uh, apartment upstairs. That yours, lady?”

 

The second story windows were dark and blocked by thick curtains that betrayed nothing of what was inside. She had been expecting an apartment complex. Some skeevy hole-in-the-wall, going by the low rent. But a well groomed exterior wasn't always what it was cracked up to be, in housing or people. “I suppose it is,” Amaya replied, hitching the strap of her bag tighter across her back, “do I need my hand stamped to get in?”

 

“Go around back. There's a fire escape. We'll let the manager know you're up there so she can let you in.” He and his buddy didn't much care whether she walked around the building or out into traffic, and promptly refocused on the sidewalk to the right and left of her as if she were already gone.

 

“Okay,” she said under her breath, “much obliged,” and headed for the alley next to the club. It was too narrow to fit three of her side-by-side and unsuited for vehicles, but pleasantly devoid of dumpsters or muggers lying in wait. A streak of graffiti and various litter with an underperforming streetlight between the back alley and a parking lot on the other side of it came into view. To her left was a heavy door marked _EXIT_ and beside it a rusted ladder that lead to a grated platform attached to the second story above.

 

Blessed with natural dexterity, she had little difficulty making her way up. Flakes of the fire escape rubbed off onto her hands as she climbed the rungs that remained wet from the shower that hit her on the way in. She wiped her fingers on her thighs when she reached the second story, uncaring of her appearance at this point. None of this was standard and was likely a violation of her tenant rights but that explained the rent. At least, she hoped this was the extent of the justification.

 

A single pane window in a weathered metal door with no doorbell or address marked the entrance to her new place, presumably. Insects slapped against the lone bulb fitted above the door, clinging to whatever light they could even if it hurt. From her position, she could see the rooftops down the block and quelled the urge to hop from the platform to run across them. There was nowhere new to run that wouldn't end in a variant of this depressive, uncaring alley, anyway.

 

The curtain against the little window brightened a shade and she saw movement flickering in front of a light source, signalling the arrival of her landlord. Amaya adjusted the strap over her shoulder and fought off the rush of nerves that accompanied acquainting herself with the person making the final call on whether or not she'd be sleeping in a cardboard box tonight.

 

With the jingle of the steel door knob and soft click of a lock yielding, the door opened inward and a shaft of light from inside washed over Amaya. A young woman around her age, dark complexioned with warm brown eyes and thick brown hair with a jaunty streak of blonde awaited just inside. She held open the entryway for Amaya and ushered her in. The woman’s brows were dark and arched, suggesting an aura of mystery which was immediately dashed by her wide smile and winsome sprinkle of freckles across her nose. She dressed in slacks and a suit vest over a crisp white collared shirt and black tie. The Firestorm Lounge was _ritzy_.

 

“Amaya? Amaya Jiwe? You're who I emailed over the apartment listing?” Her tone was welcoming, excited even, but the curiosity was plain on her face, along with something else Amaya couldn't put a finger on. “I’m sorry if I butchered the pronunciation because it's such a pretty name.”

 

Amaya accepted the invitation and slipped past her, nodding in gratitude and catching her first glimpse of the interior of the building. They were in a long hallway with polished hardwood floors, ending in a set of stairs at the opposite end. Luminaires hung above on brass chains fitted around orange domes trailing from the high ceiling, with walls of yellow stucco. There were three doors, one on the left and two to the right of the hall, made of dark heavy wood cast as red under the lights.

 

It was gorgeous. Amaya figured that either she had made a mistake reading the rent amount on the listing or this was going to end with her being auctioned off to some cabal along with the other people who'd looked at the apartment before her. It still wasn't too late to flee across those rooftops.

 

But not to get ahead of herself, she fixed her attention on the friendly neighborhood non-slum lord. “You said it perfectly, miss…?”

 

“Oh! Kendra! Kendra Saunders. I manage the apartment and the bar downstairs.” She extended a hand and Amaya shook it firmly, unthinkingly slipping into character as somebody unused to being treated like a pariah. “I’m also your neighbor,” Kendra continued, then gestured to the first door on the right, “so this'll be you right here.”

 

The closest apartment to the fire exit proved to be Amaya’s when Kendra pulled a keyring from her belt and quickly unlocked the door, once again prompting Amaya to enter.

 

Her living room was decorated just as lavishly as the hallway and though Kendra seemed sweet and helpful, Amaya recognized a con job when she saw one. “Say, not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Ms. Saunders, but I can't imagine that a place this impressive is available for what we agreed upon.”

 

Kendra, who had been flicking on various lights around the unexpectedly spacious and furnished apartment, stopped in her tracks, her back to Amaya. “I know it seems low but we've been searching for a tenant for a while now. The tax break pays for itself, if you can believe it.”

 

She couldn’t, but before Amaya could inquire further, Kendra rounded on her, brows drawn together and red lips pressed in a line. The unnameable expression on her face from before became clear now. Guilt. “Alright, so, full disclosure. Some… just a few... people did… die… in here.”

 

“Who? How?” Amaya asked immediately, studying Kendra more closely than before. She was too patient, too lenient and too important to be taking a break to deal with her in the middle of a busy work night. There was more to this whole set-up than she was letting on. “I had a hunch that the neighborhood was dangerous, but—”

 

Kendra approached her and placed her hands on Amaya’s tense shoulders. “We have security on-site at all times. There hasn't been an incident like that since the previous owner was replaced by my boss and the Lounge came under new management — me.” Her words and voice were soft, eyes soft, her grip soft on the jacket Amaya wore, too. Kendra Saunders falsely pegged Amaya as an ingénue, bright-eyed and trusting in the big city. Could be the woman was too soft for her own good all around. Maybe Amaya’s as well. “You're safe here.”

 

Amaya took a delicate step back and broke Kendra's gaze. If she were still an officer she would press the issue with further questions. Impersonal ones at first to earn Kendra's trust with help from her own shared anecdotes, then segue to her residence and what she could expect. But she was an unemployed civilian with no badge, no time and no other option with the size of her savings. Amaya would have to shed her old life by degrees, despite the dramatic change of scenery. She didn't ask.

 

“As long as the situation is in the past, I guess I can't complain…” Amaya visually inspected the expanse of the apartment and saw no blood stains or signs of struggle. And whoever had decorated leaned more toward cozy than utilitarian, because just the thought of lying back on the plush sofa was enough to make her sway on her feet. The realization that the place already felt homey even without sending for photos of family and friends in Zambezi to hang up on the walls was a dizzying relief. She might be the latest inhabitant of a murder den but she could make it _her_ murder den.

 

“Things are better now. It won't be dangerous for you. You’re protected here. And if you have safety concerns, you have full permission to pull up that ladder outside when you get home, if it gives you peace of mind.” Kendra bounced on the balls of her feet and looked around the room. “So, what do ya think?”

 

What did she think? Amaya thought that she was still in over her head and might not ever break the surface. She thought about the few people she had left in Central City and if she would ever see them again. If they wanted to, or if they could live out the rest of their lives with her impact happily scrubbed from memory. She wondered if she could ever make amends to Joe, who wouldn't look her in the eye even when she told him she was leaving town. Amaya considered if giving Iris space instead of brokering peace was the last merciful mistake she would ever make that hurt the West family.

 

But Kendra meant her opinion on the apartment. Which was as cute as all get out. “It's terrific. Above and beyond what I expected. Thank you.”

 

This was precisely what her neighbor wanted to hear. “Great!" chirped Kendra, that broad smile in full force. "I decorated it all myself — boss didn't have the time. Or any idea of what a color swatch was.”

 

“Who is your boss, anyway?” Amaya allowed curiosity to get the better of her. Never could kick a habit cold turkey. “I don't know much about this building or the people in charge of it.”

 

Kendra hesitated, but her training as a hospitality manager to the public won out. “Jefferson Jackson. He’s the head of Mayor Thawne’s R&D department…? You — you mean you don't know him?”

 

“Why would I?” The confusion in Kendra’s tone made it clear that she had assumed so all along, and this new information didn't align with what she had imagined Amaya to be. _What_ exactly Ms. Saunders had presumed she was to Mr. Jackson was a mystery perhaps better left unsolved. “ _Should_ I?”

 

“Oh, gosh, no! And if you do, it's — it's none of my business! I shouldn't have pried. I'm sorry.” Suddenly flustered, Kendra awkwardly pressed a key ring into Amaya's hand and eyed the exit longingly. “And I should get back downstairs. But if you need anything, call down. Best part of living above the _Firestorm_? Only place in town where our kitchen will deliver.”

 

Remembering the scents wafting from the front doors, Amaya had no doubt Kendra told the truth. “That's the best news I've heard all year.”

 

That halted Kendra, who was halfway out with the door already flung open. She regarded Amaya a moment, her features guarded, then leaned towards her and said low and with authority, “And Amaya? Between you and me? You're going to want to keep that ladder out there off of the ground at night.”

 

_Feel safe, but not safe enough to live on good faith alone,_ Kendra warned in every way but words. A flicker of a smile and a courteous nod, and Amaya was alone in her new abode. She heard the metal door outside open and close and then footsteps down the hall passed her door and continued in the direction of the stairs leading to the club. Kendra had taken her own advice and secured the fire escape for her. Amaya was in for the evening. Home safe.

 

She dropped her bag on the floor and immediately shook her jacket from her shoulders to join it. A quick investigation determined that she had one bed, one bath, full kitchen and free HBO, just as the online listing said. It hadn't included the mini washer/dryer, walk-in tub and personal study with a home library. And not a single hidden camera or two-sided mirror to make sense of her good luck. Ridiculous. What in the hell was this place? And how exactly had Amaya managed to stumble on to the deal of the century straight off the worst era of her life?

 

In a silent battle between her hunger and her desire to not feel like a forgotten pack of gum lodged in the bottom of somebody's purse, the shower won priority. Amaya took her time and let her mind go quiet; absorbed the sensation of the warm water running over her skin which was comforting no matter where she rested her head. When she was through, she grabbed for the lush yellow robe on the back of the door, and pulled one of the fluffy white towels out of the bathroom cupboard. That's when Amaya saw it.

 

A black metal box a foot wide with a keypad on it. Hidden in the bathroom cupboard was a gun safe. Taped to its side was a note, scrawl unfamiliar and messy on a torn away corner of a fast food wrapper.

 

_Ain't smart to go without a piece in Star City_

 

Written beneath the words was a sequence of numbers to unlock the safe. Amaya lifted the box and carried it to the desk in the modest study. Heavy. There was certainly _something_ inside. A quick search of the apartment proved nobody had broken in while she was showering and the door and windows were still locked tight. When she checked the windows, there were now two dimmed headlights beaming toward her apartment from the parking lot across the alley.

 

Pulling her robe closed more tightly, Amaya chanced a peek past the curtain. Sure enough, the vehicle flared to life and peeled out of the lot like she'd shot a starter pistol. Newer model luxury town car, midnight blue, Star City plates. Too bad she couldn't run them. The driver was too far away to discern much detail but the figure was broad and the passenger seat appeared empty. She turned from the window, her back resting against the wall of her new boudoir.

 

On the floor by the bathroom doorway were her clothes, forgotten in a pile in her excitement to try out the facilities. A white paper rectangle poked from her pants pocket like it had been trying to get her attention. She stepped over and plucked it out, reading over it again, the words meaning more now that the address was somewhere tangible.

 

She didn't have a single friend in Star City, and barely even a colleague. But seeing a familiar name and knowing that they were one call away was close enough to pretend that she wasn't alone here. At least for tonight. Amaya returned to the study and placed A.D.A. Lance’s business card on the desk, beside the gun safe, in the spot where family photos might eventually find themselves.

 

By her tally she had two immediate problems left to solve if she truly wanted to make a go of it in Star City. One, a job. Wally had suggested becoming a private investigator and she was sure he was kidding but it was still an idea. But with Eobard Thawne’s clean jobs initiative and the positive national press it received, finding a gig couldn't be that hard in this town. And even if it was, she was humbled enough to graciously take what she could get to survive. A dubious silver lining.

 

Her second problem could be taken care of with a call to Kendra, some plastic silverware, and a crumpled twenty dollar bill. She really was excited about the food - it hadn’t just been an act to flatter Kendra and gain her favor. Though she did seem flattered all the same. Could there truly be someone like Ms. Saunders in Star City - as sweet on the outside as she was in? Amaya’d wait and see on that one. Far too early to get her hopes dashed.

 

One edge of the box was missing paint, chipped and flattened on the corner as though it had been dropped. Amaya ran her hand over it and the sharp, ragged metal dragged just enough to catch on the pad of her finger before she pulled away. New, but clumsily acquired or delivered. It had already been waiting for her in the bathroom before she’d arrived at the building.

 

When she typed in the code, a sensor like the end of a ball-point pin flashed green. Cheaply made and designed with simplicity in mind, but the safe did the job. She watched the green light, biding her time in the off chance the safe held something alive or explosive, or some other paranoid, irrational half thought, but nothing came of it. At first she pried the lid open cautiously, but quickly lost patience and flipped it over in one go. If it was a bomb to blow her off the face of the Earth, she at least wanted to know what kind first. But it wasn’t a bomb, and it wasn’t an abrupt end to her life, either. It was exactly what anybody would have anticipated finding in a gun safe. And the beginning of a new set of paranoid, irrational half thoughts.

 

Amaya retrieved the glock, lingering on the weight in her palm; the chilled, smooth surface of the metal. On the grip was wear and tear with stories that only she knew. It was heavy in her hand as she slowly pointed it at the window and lined her eye just a tick to the right of the barrel sight. She used to joke with Joe that the gun didn’t have a defect, it just had its heart set on her from the moment it was made and wouldn’t settle for anybody else. The same rounds were still inside from the day she’d placed it on the Chief’s desk with her badge.

 

So now a third problem. Who had secretly stored her gun here like it was waiting for her to find it, and how in the hell had it gotten from inside the CCPD lockup to a box in the bathroom cabinet of an apartment in Star City? And was this mystery patron a friend or foe?

  
If it was a friend, what kind of foes could she expect if her gift was a gun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss Kendra.


End file.
